Godslayer (27 page)

"Nothing!" The Staccian scowled up at him. "Did we not just ride together, you and I? Did we not do his Lordship's bidding? Vent your anger elsewhere, cousin!"

Tanaros drew his sword, touching the point of it to Vorax's chest. The hilt throbbed in his grip, resonating to the anger of Lord Satoris, in whose blood its black blade had been tempered. The same beat throbbed in his chest, the scar over his heart pulsing with it. "Poison deadly enough to slay one of the Ellylon is not obtained with ease. Don't lie to me… cousin."

Vorax raised his hands. "Ask your Lady, since you value her so much."

Tanaros nodded once, grimly. "So I shall."

He sheathed the sword before he strode through the halls of Darkhaven. It didn't matter. His fury. Lord Satoris' fury, beat from him in waves, white-hot and searing. No one would stand in its way. Madlings and Havenguard alike fell back before it; the former scuttling to hide, the latter falling in at his back, exchanging glances.

The door to her quarters was ajar.

That alone was enough to fill him with rage. Tanaros flung the door wide open, striding through as it crashed. The sight of Cerelinde in all her beauty speaking to Speros rendered him momentarily speechless.

"General Tanaros."

"Lord General!"

They both rose to their feet to greet him. Cerelinde's face was grave and guarded; Speros' was open and grateful. Tanaros struggled for control. Somewhere, there was the scent of vulnus-blossom.

No.

It was imagination, or memory. Once, he had come upon them thusly; not these two, but others. Calista, his wife. Roscus Altorus, his lord. Not these two.

"What happened here?" Tanaros asked thickly'. "Tell me!"

"It was one of the Dreamspinner's madlings, boss." Speros watched his face warily, standing clear of his sword; the blade Tanaros had no memory of having drawn since he had left Vorax. "Tried to poison her near as I can figure. His Lordship's in a proper fury. The Lady says she doesn't know which one it was that brought the poison."

With an effort, Tanaros brought his breathing under control, pointing the tip of his blade at Cerelinde. "Who was it?"

Her chin rose. "I cannot say. General."

She was lying; or as near to a lie as the Ellylon came. She knew. She would not say. Tanaros stared at her, knowing it. Knowing her, knowing she would seek to protect those she perceived as lesser beings loving her and hating her at once for it. His wife had offered him the same lie, seeking to protect her unborn child, but he had seen the truth in the child's mien and read it in her gaze. He could do no such thing with the Lady of the Ellylon.

"So be it." He pointed his sword at Speros. "Keep her safe, Midlander. It is his Lordship's will."

"Lord General." Speros gulped, offering him a deep bow. "I will."

"Good." Tanaros shoved his sword back into his scabbard, turning on his heel and heading in the direction of the cry. It had come from the Throne Hall. Whether or not his Lordship had summoned him, he could not have said; it was where his fury compelled him to go. His armor rattled with the swiftness of his strides, its black lacquered surface reflecting light cast by the veins of marrow-fire in a fierce blue-white glare. For once, the Havenguard had to hurry to keep pace with him.

Even as he approached the massive doors depicting the Shapers' War, the pair of
Mørkhar Fjel on duty opened them. A slender figure stumbled between the doors, crossed the threshold, and fell heavily to its knees, head bowed, clutching its right arm. Lank silver-gilt hair spilled forward, hiding its features.

"Dreamspinner," Tanaros said drily.

Ushahin lifted his head with an effort. His face was haggard, white as bone. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. "Cousin."

The hilt of the black sword pulsed under Tanaros' hand. He did not remember reaching for it a third time. Breathing slowly, he made himself release it. If Ushahin was alive, it meant his Lordship did not want him dead. He stared at the half-breed's pain-racked face, concentrating on breathing and willing himself to calm. "This was very foolish. Even for you."

One corner of Ushahin's mouth twisted. "So it would appear."

"What did he do to you?"

Moving slowly. Ushahin extended his right arm. Nerves in his face twitched with the residue of pain as he held his arm outstretched, pushing up the sleeve with his left hand. His right hand was clenched in a fist, nails biting into the palm. He opened his stiff fingers, a sheen of sweat appearing on his brow.

The arm was whole and perfect; more, it was beautiful. Strength and grace were balanced in the corded muscle, the sleek sinews. His skin was milk-white and flawless. A subtle pool of shadow underscored the bone hillock of his wrist, unexpectedly poignant. His hand was a study in elegance; a narrow palm and long, tapering fingers, only the bloody crescents where his nails had bitten marring its perfection.

"His Lordship is merciful." Ushahin said tautly. "He allows me to bear his punishment that my madlings might be spared it."

Tanaros stared, bewildered. "This is punishment!"

Ushahin laughed soundlessly. "He healed my sword-arm that I might fight at your side, cousin." A bead of sweat gathered, rolling down the side of his face. "You'll have to teach me how to hold a sword."

Tanaros shook his head, "I don't understand."

"Oh, he broke it, first." Ushahin licked lips parched from screaming. "Inch by inch, bone by bone. He ground them into fragments, and then he Shaped them anew, as slowly as he destroyed them. Does that help make it clear for you?"

"Yes." Tanaros swallowed against a wave of nausea. "It does."

"Good." Ushahin closed his eyes briefly. "You were right, it was foolish. Not the attempt, but its aftermath." He opened his eyes. "He drew on Godslayer's power to do this, Tanaros, and spent his own in the bargain. I shouldn't have taken the risk of provoking such a thing. He's precious little to spare."

"Dreamspinner." Somewhere, the anger had drained from Tanaros. He considered Ushahin and sighed, extending his hand. "Get up." Despite the tremors that yet racked Ushahin, Tanaros felt the strength of the half-breed's new grip through his gauntleted hand as he helped him to his feet. "After a thousand years, why does he want
you
to wield a sword?"

"Ah, that." Ushahin exhaled hard, clutching Tanaros' shoulder for balance. "It is so that I may be of some use in the battle to come, since
I am to be denied the Helm of Shadows." Their gazes locked, and Ushahin smiled his crooked smile. "You've worn it before. I may bring a greater madness to bear, but you bring the purity of your hatred and a warrior's skill. Wield it well, cousin; and ward it well, too. There is a prophecy at work here."

…
and the Helm of Shadows is broken
…

Tanaros took a deep breath. "It is a heavy burden."

"Yes." Ushahin relinquished his grip, standing on wavering feet. He flexed his newly Shaped sword-arm, watching the muscles shift beneath the surface of his pale skin. "I gambled, cousin, and lost. We will have to make do." He nodded toward the Throne Hall. "As you love his Lordship, go now and deliver news he will be glad to hear."

It was thrice a hundred paces to walk the length of the Throne Hall. The torches burned with a fierce glare, sending gouts of marrow-fire toward the rafters, casting stark shadows. His Lordship sat unmoving in his carnelian throne. Godslayer shone in his hands, and upon his head was the Helm of Shadows.

The sight of it struck Tanaros like a blow. It was never easy to bear, and hardest of all when Lord Satoris wore it, for it was tuned to the pitch of his despair—of the knowledge he alone bore, of the role he was fated to play. Of the anguish of a brother's enmity, of the loss of a sister's love. Of immortal flesh seared and blackened, of Godslayer's prick and his unhealing wound. Of generation upon generation of mortal hatred, eroding the foundations of his sanity.

There was a new pain filling the dark eyeholes: the agony of betrayal, the whirlwind of fury and remorse bound inextricably together, tainted with self-loathing. Tanaros felt tears sting his eyes, and his heart swelled within the constraint of his brand.

"Tanaros Blacksword." Lord Satoris' voice was low and weary.

"My Lord!" He knelt, the words bursting fiercely from him. "My Lord, I swear, I will never betray you!"

Beneath the shadow of the Helm, the Shaper's features shifted into something that might have been a bitter smile. "You have seen the Dreamspinner."

"He should never have defied your will." Tanaros gazed up at the aching void. "He should never have added to your pain, my Lord."

The Shaper bowed his head, studying Godslayer as the shard pulsed between his hands, emitting a rubescent glow. "It was not without reason," he mused. "And yet… ah. Tanaros! Is there no way to survive without becoming what they name me? I have fought so hard for so long. Ushahin Dreamspinner sought to take the burden on himself, but there is no escaping the pattern of destiny. Oh, loving traitor, traitorous love!" He gave a harsh echoing laugh, making the torches flare, "It is always the wound that cuts the deepest."

Tanaros frowned. "My Lord?"

"Pay me no heed." Lord Satoris passed one hand before his helm-shadowed eyes. "I am in darkness, my faithful general. I am surrounded by it. It is all I see, and it grows ever deeper. Pay me no heed. It is your time that is coming, the time of the Three. It is for this that I summoned you, so many years ago. I wonder, betimes, which one…" Glancing at Godslayer, he paused and gathered himself. "Vorax reports that it was done and the Staccian traitors dispatched. Have you ensured that the tunnels have been sealed?"

"Aye, my Lord." Tanaros touched the hilt of his sword for comfort, feeling its familiar solidity. "I pray you, know no fear. Darkhaven is secure."

"That is good, then." The Shapers head fell back onto his carnelian throne as though it cost him too much to keep it upright. His shadowed eyes glimmered in the uptilted sockets of the Helm. He held Godslayer loosely in his grip. "Tell me, my faithful general. Did I ask it, did I return Godslayer to the Font, would you swear your oath anew?"

Tanaros stared at the beating heart of the dagger; the rough knob of the hilt, the keen edges, ruby-bright and sharp as a razor. The scar on his chest ached at the memory. It had hurt when his Lordship had plucked the dagger from the marrow-fire and seared his flesh with the pact of binding—more than any mortal fire, more than any pain he had ever known. He raised his gaze. "I would, my Lord."

"Loyal Tanaros," Lord Satoris whispered. "It is to you I entrust my honor."

"My Lord." Tanaros bowed his head.

The Shaper gave another laugh, weary and edged with despair. "It is no boon I grant, but a burden. Go, now, and tend to your duties. I must… I must think." He glanced once more at Godslayer, a bitter resentment in his gaze. "Yes, that is it. I must think."

"Aye, my Lord." Rising to his feet. Tanaros bowed and made to take his leave.

"Tanaros."' The whisper stopped him.

"My Lord?"

Beneath the Helm, the Shaper's shadowed features shifted. "Teach the Dreamspinner to hold a blade," he said softly. "He may have need of the knowledge before the end."